Survivor
by Jimmy Collins
Summary: In the wake of a massive mercenary attack, Scintillan Lord Virgil Paxton struggles with the questions of who did this to him, why, how, and why he was spared. Oh, he's also got to put his life back together, get his revenge, and take care of the only other survivor. Rated T for general depression and language.


**A/N: This won't remain on the site for very long, I think. I'm going to finish it and then take it down. It's more a reviews-whore thing than anything else, as this is a smaller practice on a larger world-build project, and I want to see what you think, if anyone still follows me. I'm anticipating three chapters, more if the fancy strikes me. **

* * *

_"__Why'd they do it?" he managed around the blood in his nose. _

_The older boy paused, a pensive look on his face. "Because you let them." _

* * *

The Lord Virgil Paxton lay in his surprisingly Spartan bedroom.

He was one of the wealthiest and most influential men in this segment of Sibellus. He was obscenely rich. Not even he knew precisely how rich he was; the only person who might have known was not in any state to do sums.

He was well-known, respected, even admired. He was even more than conventionally handsome, with his broad, powerful frame, his thin, boyish face, and his strikingly grey eyes.

The first rays of the sun played across his room and he shifted, groaning. "Octavia, I…"

His fingers pushed against empty sheets.

There was nobody else there.

* * *

"Why doesn't he speak?" he asked. "Is it the head wound?"

Then nurse shook his head. "It is deep, but there is no damage to the brain."

Virgil could not reply for a moment, his throat would not let him. "So," he said eventually, "so he does not want to speak."

* * *

"Nothing?" he asked. His voice was calm. He had gone to lengths to keep it calm, but the investigating officer must have heard something in his tone.

"Not quite nothing," she said briskly. "We have identified twelve of the eighteen attackers. They owe allegiance to a mercenary group known as the Company."

"I don't care about the mercenaries," he growled. "I want the man who paid them."

"I understand…" she began, but he cut her off.

"Do you know who ordered the attack?" he asked.

She pressed her lips together. "Mercenary groups pride themselves on discretion. Short of a raid on their HQ…"

"Do you know where their HQ is?" he asked.

She gave him an odd look. "No."

His skin was growing hot again. "Nothing," he said again, with surprising calm.

The officer folded her arms. "Lord Paxton, I intend to do everything in my power to find the man who murdered your family, but…"

"Yes," he said, cutting her off again. "I saw how you handled the Lucille case."

She blinked, and he could almost see her pulling up the information on her retinal HUD. "Oh. The case that was dropped because the prime suspect was…"

"-was the wrong man," he ground out.

She looked at him for a moment, and her gaze was entirely neutral. "Perhaps. This investigation is not over, Lord Paxton. We still have leads. And we will follow them."

He ground his teeth together. "Finish your investigation," he managed. "Find your man. But make certain he's the right one."

* * *

On the third day they had released the bodies. He vaguely remembered a substandard funeral, because it was cheaper and easier to bury them all in one sweep. How does one go about burying an entire family, mother, father, and five siblings?

It wasn't what they deserved. It wasn't what any of them had deserved.

During that awful night, he'd fought tooth and nail for his life, for her life. It had seemed worth it, then, like he was an instrument of vengeance.

The men he killed, though, they were just pawns. And now, they were dead. It was as if a hole had opened up in his heart, and the only thing that could fill it was the death of the man who had ordered this massacre. Sometimes, he found himself wondering if even that would fill it.

It didn't matter. Nothing mattered, not anymore.

* * *

"How is he?" he asked softly.

The nurse shrugged. "Still conscious," he said. "Still unresponsive."

Virgil waved his hand. "Leave us."

He didn't bother watching the nurse leave. There was the faint click of a door, and then silence.

He sat down beside the only other survivor. "Nathaniel," he said softly.

Nathaniel said nothing, as he had for six days now.

"It's me, Virgil."

Nathaniel blinked.

Virgil took his brother's hand, turning it over. He looked at the mesh of bandages just visible under the hospital gown. "I've spoken with the investigating officers," he said, and could not help the tinge of rage that entered his voice. "They… they've found nothing. They can't…"

He realized he was squeezing Nathaniel's hand a bit too harshly. Virgil forced himself to relax.

He brushed his fingers lightly across the bandage on the side of Nathaniel's head. It covered a small gash, but a surprisingly deep one. Even now, it was tinged a sluggish, oozing yellow-pink.

Something hardened in his heart, his chest, his stomach, a sort of ice that spread through his limbs and forced its way out his mouth. "I will find the one who did this to you," he said, "to us. I swear it."

Nathaniel swallowed.

Virgil gave his brother's hand a final squeeze. "I'll be back tomorrow," he said.

As he left, he didn't see the small tear that made its way down Nathaniel's cheek.

* * *

"Wot've we got 'ere?" asked the thugs' leader. "Nob that got lost?"

"Looks like we 'ave to 'elp 'im' find 'is way 'ome", said the second, who seemed entirely incapable of pronouncing his h's.

It was worth a try, Virgil decided. That was why he was here. "Do any of you know where to find the Company?" he asked.

"'ear that?" asked the second. "'e wants our company."

"If he wants company," said the third in a gravely baritone, "he's come to the right place."

"I fink it's time to share the wealth, don't you?" The second one grinned. "Hey, wanna hand us yer wallet?"

"No," said Virgil flatly.

The leader jerked forward, sword in hand. Virgil sidestepped, drawing his chainsword in one fluid motion, whipping it through the other man's abdomen in a spray of blood. The violence felt so very, very good, and suddenly he was back in the manor, ripping through the mercenaries one by one by one.

The second fired his laspistol. Quick as a snake, Virgil sidestepped and plunged his sword into the third man's belly.

The second's eyes widened at the sight of his friend's intestines spilling out of his stomach, and turned to run, tripping over his own feet.

Virgil was on him in a second. "_The Company_," he growled.

"Aw, fuck, mate, I don't know nuffin about no company," he screeched. "Please, please, aaargh!"

Virgil hamstrung the man, stepping back. He turned off his chainsword, waited for the teeth to stop rotating, and pressed the flat of it against the man's cheek. "Tell me."

"I don't know, mate, I don't know nuffin, just let me go!" The man was in tears.

Virgil's teeth ground together. Somehow, someone's blood had splashed onto his face, and he absently licked it away before realizing what it was.

_"__The fuck did you do to my legs? I don't know mate, I'm sorry. You can 'ave whatever you want, please, please…" _

The ferrous tang was good, very good against his teeth. Virgil raised his sword and chopped off the man's legs.

Miraculously, the thug was still conscious, though no longer coherent. He wept and cried and screamed, and Virgil saw a nondescript grey uniform, saw Octavia's blood all over the rich carpet, and he raised his sword and drove it through the mercenary's heart.

When the red had cleared from his vision, he numbly realised he had not bothered to switch his chainsword on.

There was a cooling warmth on his face, his hands. His clothes were ruined, soaked through with blood.

He had just killed three men. None of them was responsible for Octavia's death, but it had felt, just for a moment, that they were. If only they had been, if only it was that night, if only he had been faster…

The third had died in cold blood, helpless, begging for mercy.

Disgusted, Virgil turned and went home.

* * *

_Because you _let_ them_.

* * *

He knelt in their little chapel.

He seemed to be doing that more and more lately.

He prayed a little, the standard Supplications at first, a few prayers memorised when he was small, more a way of clearing his mind than really talking to the God-Emperor.

Mostly he just sat, stared at the golden Aquila, let the thoughts filter though his mind.

Honestly, he was a bit afraid what would happen next time he really, really knelt down and prayed. He was afraid he would blame the God-Emperor, demand explanations, reasons, and recompense.

Had he allowed himself, he would have wondered what he had done to deserve this, why the Emperor had seen fit to punish him, and down that road led bad things.

_For my ways are not your ways…_

No. Better that he hold his anger, pet it, feed it, and turn it toward the earthly agent responsible. Because if the Emperor was doing this to teach him a lesson

_What lesson could possibly be worth this?_

then it was better that he remained humble, focused on the material reason for his pain.

_WHAT reason? What possible reason?_

It would have been better if he at least had a name, something to chase, someone he could hate. He could be doing something, not sitting here, not waiting for the police to finish botching the job.

Sighing, he rose, said a quick Our Emperor, and then wandered into the main hallway. It was time he visited Nathaniel.

* * *

On the eighth night, he found that he could not sleep.

The first few days his waking hours and his dreams had blended into one another. Everything held a tinge of the same unreality. He would wake and reach for her beside him out of habit, pull her close and nestle into the nape of her neck.

And then reality would come crashing back in.

On the eight night, though, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, remembering her hair, her eyes, the softness of her skin. _I love you_, he'd whisper into the darkness, and the darkness would whisper back.

_I know. _

* * *

He was half-way through strapping his sword-belt on when he realised what he was doing, where he intended to go, the little promises he was making himself. _I won't kill them if they don't attack me first, I won't start anything, I won't kill them if they're helpless…_

But the rage, the focus, it had been refreshing. It had felt good, in a way that he hadn't felt since… well, since before. There had been a sort of release in the blood spilt, the screams, the terrible, beautiful violence. He had felt alive for the first time in ages, had felt the air pouring through his lungs, the blood rushing through his veins. The heat and the cold all over, the sense of power, that he could burn away everything and anyone between them.

Somehow, he made his hands undo the sword belt, replace it carefully where it belonged. He glanced back toward his bedroom, but there was no rest waiting for him there. The moons shone silvery though the hall window, playing patterns across the marble.

* * *

Instead, he made for the roof. The air was cool and fresh, rustling gently through the cherry branches, and the fountain babbled as it poured clear water down, down, down.

He saw the figure edged in silver as soon as he stepped onto the path, but said nothing. Somehow, somehow he knew that this was a place and a time not meant for words, not yet.

Instead, he stepped closer, footfalls soft in the pale green grass.

"I'm dreaming," Nathaniel said without turning. He stared down the front of the house, across the lawn, at the spires shining in the moonlight.

"No," said Virgil.

They watched Sibellus as it ran for a moment, the lights, the faraway sounds, the distant babble of a thousand voices.

Nathaniel turned toward him, the light playing across his face. "You're alive," he said, his voice breaking on the second syllable.

Virgil embraced him, squeezing him tightly, not caring about his brother's injuries, and it didn't seem Nathaniel cared either.

"We're alive," he said in answer to Nathaniel's sobs. "We're both alive."


End file.
